


Hubris (Too Close to the Sun)

by Bosque



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Post-Doom Upon All the World, Spoilers, Strained Relationships, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosque/pseuds/Bosque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For shame, Dread Wolf, for shame. What have you done? What have your plans, your power, your pride wrought this time?"<br/>The pride that he's taken for his name has taken him to the edge. He tries not to fall off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> I don't remember the exact original definition for hubris I found, but it went something like "the flaw of excessive pride that leads to a tragic character's downfall." That made me think of Solas and how well he fit this definition with his series of "falls", and one thing led to another. Right now I'm thinking there will be five chapters total, but I'll have to see where this takes me. Any feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

_Hubris (n.):_ _excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance_.

I.

For shame, Dread Wolf, for shame. What have you done? What have your plans, your power, your pride wrought this time? You cradle the two halves of your foiled plans, your fractured power, your broken pride in your hands, now nothing more than two shattered headstones to mark the grave of the dream you were to paint over the ruined masterpiece of reality. You know the stories of lauded artists destroying the works they judged were not up to par, but a younger you never imagined yourself in their position. You brush a thumb over the ridged edge where the two halves should be joined, but are split instead.

The jawbone that dangles from your neck grins up at you. The weight of it drops your head into your chest. _For shame_ , it taunts. As if her heavy gaze on your back wasn't reminder enough.

"The orb." You manage to keep your voice from cracking around the words. _You did this_ , you want to add, _you've ruined everything and they will call you a hero_. But you bite the words back because you know they will only lead to more questions you won't be able to pivot around.

"Corypheus is gone. That's what's important."

Anger pricks at you. "Just like he was gone the last time, I assume?"

Careful, Dread Wolf, careful. Luckily, she ignores you or doesn't hear, and leaves to let the silence of the dead battlefield drape over you. Inside, the wolf is tearing at you, far from quiet.

Turn tail and run now. There is nothing left for you here.


	2. Anger

II.

Remember, Dread Wolf, remember. Go back to the beginning, crawl there, drag yourself if you must. The broken stones will pave your path. The corpses with their mouths pried open, the screams for their Maker scorched to ash in their throats, and their hands thrown up in front of their faces in a dying prayer (PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEA) will mark the way. You can't make the same mistakes this time. There is no curtain to drop between you and them, no veil to hide behind.  
Seeker Pentaghast leads you to the dungeon under the Haven chantry where the prisoner is, the living corpse that stepped out of the Fade. They don’t know the survivor’s name, but they brand her easily enough. To them, she is a murderer. You study her through the cell's bars.  
"Her fate is your fate," the Seeker says curtly when she lets you into the cell.  
You sink to the stone floor, crossing your legs underneath you to sit next to her, repressing a scowl at the the delicate tattoos that unfurl over her face, branding her in the name of a false god. The smell of smoke still clings to her. Flecks of blood splatter her hands and her clothes. Her shallow breathing occasionally hitches in gasps of pain as the mark on her hand spits and crackles. Her whole body seems to curl around her shackled hand, either trying to protect it or hide it. You lift that hand, dragging the cumbersome shackles with it. It sparks in your hands, splitting her palm further apart. The familiar magic, your magic, hums up the length of her whole arm, cascading into the rest of her.  
The only strength left in her is the one she's stolen from you. She undoes the sky itself, plucking unwittingly at the bare threads twisting from the gaping tear they call the Breach. The mark, it will kill her. That much is certain. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but eventually it will swallow her whole like the Breach intends to swallow the world. A sudden streak of satisfaction races through you when you realize this. That is your first mistake.  
“Ir abelas,” you breathe. You aren’t speaking to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Ir abelas- I'm sorry


	3. Bargaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers ahead if you haven't finished Inquisition yet!

III.

Why, Dread Wolf, why?

Why do you hesitate? You've intended far worse for far lesser before. Remember the Herald, the Inquisitor, the blind, foolish Dalish girl who led Andraste's faithful? Remember what you intended for her? You would've killed her, taken back what she had taken, and left the world to die. But you couldn't. There was no way to do it unless you wished to assure the death of the world. But you couldn't, Dread Wolf, you couldn't. You weren't strong enough then. This world with a spark will not be razed by a single spark. No, you need an inferno. And she is waiting for you, burning, ready to light the flame.

"I knew you would come."

All you need to do is take her fire. But you hesitate, stumble over your shame, try to explain things she already understands. Mythal takes your face in her hands. She understands. She knows what must be done. A more willing and able sacrifice than the Inquisitor would have ever been. Yet you still hesitate. 

I'm sorry," you say. The words sound hollow.

"I'm sorry as well, old friend."

You don't look at her. You can't look at her. Old magic courses through you and when you lower her to the ground, the spark takes hold of you and burns.

Ashes to ashes, Dread Wolf, ashes to ashes. This is your third beginning. A storyteller you knew before might've made a quip about that meaning you've begun the end, because the beginning, middle, and end of a story also have a beginning, middle, and end, and this is the third beginning, which makes it the beginning of the end. Get it, Chuckles?

You push the memory of the dwarf away and pull the false goddess's heavy body closer in the towering shadow of the Eluvian, careful to avoid your reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. I ran into writer's block and I've been busy lately. Definitely going to work on being more consistent with updates.


	4. Depression

VI.  
  
Soft, Dread Wolf, soft. That's what you've become. Soft, comfortable, weak, even in the face of your power. You should be dressed in steel plate, not padded in spun cotton. No one fears a wolf with dull teeth.  
Your ragged breathing hounds you through the woods, far to the west. There is nowhere left for you to hide, no place left for you to rest. The Veil drapes around you. You tug at the seams that hold the world together, trying to make it undone. The world will burn and they will all know the agony of a god. They, you say. Who are they? Who, Dread Wolf, who? The Enavuris? The Inquisition? Orlais, Ferelden, Tevinter? Whose bones will you use to rebuild Arlathan?  
Wolves travel in packs and it seems demons do too. Your pride hangs heavily from your neck, strung with beads of shame, regret, and anger. The thousands of deaths weighing you down will never match the failure you drag behind you in the dirt. You force your head up. A roar is torn from you and it dies into whimper. What a howl. Such is the way of defeat, the vain struggle against the inevitable. You collapse under the weight, finally, giving in to it. Harsh gasps tear through you and you push your forehead against the cool ground. You want to sleep again, to dream again, to walk in a world that is yours again. When you look up again, a wolf is staring back at you. Alone, moonlight glinting off its eyes. You lash out blindly, not reaching through the Veil, but ripping ancient magic from it, taking back what is yours. There’s a blinding flash, a crack that breaks the night, a whimper that’s barely heard, then the smell of burnt fur and flesh.  
Perhaps I was wrong about you. It's hard to judge the bite of your teeth in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured out that this will probably come out to six chapters total and I updated the title. The second part of the title, "Too Close to the Sun" was inspired by a line from "Burn", a song from Hamilton. It seemed fitting.


	5. Acceptance

Listen, Dread Wolf, listen.  
Do you hear it? Your last mistake, the end calling on the other side of the mirror? It tries to pull you back through. There's so much to do. But not yet. Not. Yet.  
She staggers to her feet, swaying in front of you, but refusing to fall, refusing to yield. As if she doesn't know who- no, _what_ \- you are. She does though. She knows. Her eyes are so dark you can barely make out the black pupils set into burnt brown irises, but you can clearly see the fear that shines in them.  
And yet...  
She clutches her ruined hand closer to her when you reach for it. Her shoulders curl into a hunch. It reminds you of the prison in Haven. It seems so long ago now, like lifetimes instead of years. She was more complacent then.  
"No," she snarls when you try to take her hand again.  
You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. "It must be done."  
That's the bitter lie you've kept down all this time. There's no other way, you told yourself when you dropped the Veil, cleaving one plane into two. There's no other way, you thought as the world slipped into darkness. No other way, you remembered as you clawed your way back to the waking world. No way, you realized as the scar in the sky was healed but you were not. No. It's not a lie.  
"You're not Solas," she manages between gasps of pain, "You're not Fen'Harel. You're nothing. You're-"  
You snatch her hand and yank her forward before she can finish judging you and pass a sentence. A startled yelp darts through her gritted teeth. It must be done. No one else will do it. So you do. You take, Dread Wolf, you take. It's all you ever do, all you have ever done.  
Take.


End file.
